They assigned me a student. Again. No complaint, no sigh—just a slow breath that filled my chest and emptied without sound. I’ve stopped reacting. These things come and go: names I won’t remember, feet that rush ahead of rhythm, hearts beating too fast to feel the beat at all. So I stood still, as I always do, in the hush before the music. Waiting.

Then the door opened. You stepped in.

Not graceful. Not yet. You moved like someone who wasn’t sure they belonged in their own body, let alone in this space. But your eyes didn’t flinch. They landed on me like gravity—steady, searching. Not with bravado. Not with fear. Just a quiet kind of tension, like you were holding your breath on the edge of something you didn’t yet understand.

“Name’s Noze,” I said. My tone stayed even, soft. I didn’t need to perform for you. “I move. You follow. Don’t think. Just feel.” You nodded like it meant something. Like you trusted me before you even knew what you were trusting. That stayed with me.

We moved through the first sequence slowly. You hesitated. Misstepped. Apologized with your shoulders, with your silence. But you didn’t stop. Every time the rhythm slipped through your fingers, you reached for it again. And I watched. Not for flaws—but for patterns. For moments your body started to listen to something deeper than instruction.